Page 38 of A Summer Thing

Chapter Twenty-One

Declan

The heavy rumble of a motorcycle draws close as it pulls up to the sidewalk where I’m waiting for Jude.

At first, I’m not sure it’s him. But then I see all of his tattoos—covering his fingers curled over the bars and racing up his arms until they disappear beneath his white tee.

He pulls his helmet off with a wide grin.

I’ve never been on a motorcycle in my life, and now, I’m supposed to get on this thing. I’m slightly terrified.

“We could rethink this, you know,” I offer. “I’ve heard these things are like literally death on wheels.”

He chuckles.

“And New York is probably the worst possible place to drive one,” I keep going.

“I’ve lived here for almost twelve years. I’m more than comfortable—”

“Eleven,” I correct him. “And only eight, really, if you consider the fact that you’ve been in college for three.”

He throws his head back and laughs, the long, thick column of his tattooed throat exposed. His laughter comes a lot easier, I’ve noticed, than it did last summer.

But still, driving a motorcycle in this kind of traffic might be borderline reckless. Anxiety aside, I’d still be nervous.

So then why am I so curious?

Jude unclips a spare helmet from the back of his bike as I mull over that thought and holds it out for me. “Get your gorgeous ass over here, Little D. I promise to keep you safe.” He crosses his heart with his finger, and the gesture warms mine, weeding feelings deeper, and deeper, through it.

I am so screwed.

I take the helmet from his hand and put it on over my head, but I have no idea how to secure it, so Jude loops his finger through my belt and tugs me closer, securing it beneath my chin for me. His hand lingers at my neck, the slow swipe of his thumb against my pulse point making me shiver.

I feel the touch all the way down to my toes.

But then he pats the top of my helmet, tipping his head toward the back of his bike, and urges me to get on.

I ignore the steady patter of my heart happening beneath my ribcage and tell myself it’s adrenaline and not anxiety that’s fueling its beats, but they feel like the same thing, and I can’t tell the difference between the two.

Ignoring it all, I throw my leg over the bike behind Jude and shift around until I’m comfortable, resting my feet on the pegs and wrapping my arms around him, pressing my cheek against his back.

The cheek of my helmet, anyway. He holds my clasped hands in one of his and presses them harder against his stomach, and then we’re taking off, wind whipping against our bodies.

The ride to Central Park isn’t nearly as terrifying as I anticipated it to be. In a way, it’s almost exhilarating. In a calming sort of way. Which doesn’t make any sense whatsoever, but it makes me feel lighter, weightless, even with a steady buzz of adrenaline humming through my veins.

Warm summer air washes over my skin and tangles up my hair, and at some moments during the ride I can’t even catch my breath, but it… grounds me. Makes me feel alive, present, here , free.

The warm solidness of Jude at my front continuously sends flashes of heat licking through me—and maybe that’s because with every movement, with every swerve and dip and bump in the road, my chest brushes against his back, rubbing at my sensitive, newly-pierced nipples through my thin bra and t-shirt.

Add in the vibration happening between my legs—the hard feel of Jude between my legs—and I’m almost embarrassed to admit how turned on I am.

It hurts, but it all feels so good, too. Too good. I have to bite back a moan when pain sparks through my nipples as we hit another dip in the road, the apex of my thighs pushing harder against his body.

It’s all Jude’s fault, really.

Because he’s been such a tease.

It’s been a week since we had it out in front of his brother’s tattoo shop. Seven days since saying okay, and giving in to everything he laid out because I wanted it just as badly.

One week of sweet, intoxicating kisses—his mouth growing softer, slower, and far too teasing, languidly exploring my own, coming back for seconds, and thirds, and fourths, trailing from my mouth to my cheek to my neck, to that sweet spot directly beneath my ear.

One week of pushing at every boundary but refusing to step over them. His inked hands roving over every curve of my body, feeling and groping, pushing me into him but never pushing further—much to my own terrible, agonizing sexual frustration.

One week of being teased to the point of no return.

It feels like he’s been holding himself back. Waiting. But for what? And why?

We only have three weeks left until he leaves, and the three that have already passed flew by because of how busy we’ve both been—me, picking up more shifts at the coffee shop while struggling to make it through my accelerated writing course, and Jude, visiting with his friends and family, on top of helping coach a part-time summer youth football gig—so if that’s any indication, the next three weeks are going to be gone before we know it.

I’m desperate. And he’s wound me up so goddamn tight this past week, I can’t handle it.

Maybe that’s his plan. I don’t know. But I want him so badly at this point it hurts.

______

We pull into a spot in the museum parking garage, lock up the helmets, and make our way over to the Metropolitan Museum of Art with my hand in his. He bought us tickets for today, so even though we plan on spending most of the day in Central Park, that’s where we’re headed first.

Once we’re inside, my jaw hits the floor and stays there almost the entire time.

There’s something beautiful about being around pieces of history—art, places, old buildings and artifacts. It’s like you can feel the centuries of energy whispering between your bones, the faint echo of past lives surviving through time.

We spend the most time walking through exhibit eight-twenty-two— Van Gogh.

With his arms wrapped around me from behind, his hands clasped on my waist on opposite sides and his chin resting lightly on my shoulder, we take each piece in together.

I don’t know a lot about art, but there’s something extra captivating about his pieces.

The way his strokes of paint make the pictures feel like they’re in constant motion.

I fall in love with each and every one of them.

“Which was your favorite?” Jude asks as we leave the museum, and all of the paintings, behind.

It takes me a while to decide, but my mind keeps straying back to the irises— Irises, the title of the painting. “I think I have to go with Irises.”

“Hm.” The quiet, contemplative noise sticks to the back of his throat. “That’s interesting.”

I smile. “Why?” I ask, twisting to see his face as we walk.

“A cliché as it may or may not be, Starry Night, over at the Museum of Modern Art, happens to be my favorite. And it’s interesting, because of all his paintings, those two have similar theories surrounding them.

That they represent a connection between life and death, the earth and the heavens.

” He shrugs. “Seems fitting—in a dark and twisted way—with our pasts and whatnot.”

“Or in a beautiful way,” I volley back, and it makes him smile.

“Yeah, that too, Little D. That, too.”

We grab a couple hotdogs from a vendor nearby and begin our walk through the park.

Addy and I have been here twice. Once just for fun, and a second time when we decided we wanted to be “Central Park, New York joggers.” Titled by her.

We gave it about five minutes and a quarter mile before giving up on the idea entirely.

Running simply wasn’t for us. But I had no idea how big Central Park was before then.

When I’d seen it in movies, or online, it looked like a small park nestled in the middle of a crazy-packed city, skyscrapers hugging every inch of it.

But the park itself is actually huge. Eight-hundred and forty acres , huge.

There’s a zoo, and the Met, and a few other museums, too; a carousel, a skating rink, a pond, a giant reservoir, restaurants, a garden, a small castle, tons of bridges and architectural arches; and that’s still not everything it has to offer.

Anyone could easily get lost here, discovering new parts of it for hours and hours on end.

And that’s pretty much what we do, walking hand-in hand—joking, flirting, talking—about nothing of real importance, but the words pull us closer together anyway.

During all the months we spent apart this last year, Jude became my closest friend outside of Addy, and here, spending the day with him in Central Park, it’s evident why. We click, in a way that didn’t make sense to me last summer but doesn’t need to anymore.

The vibrant green leaves of the trees shift and sway in the breeze, Jude’s backdrop as he tells me an old childhood story about him and his brothers, and I find myself wishing I could see him here during other parts of the year.

In the spring, during a downpour of rain, droplets of water saturating his hair, dripping down his chiseled face, and soaking through his clothes.

In the fall, with colorful leaves falling down all around him and littering the floor.

In the winter, white drifting snowflakes caught in his dark lashes, the press of his boots crunching along the white-blanketed ground.

I want more than this summer, and last summer, too.

I want all of the months in between.

______

The carousel spins in musical circles, lifting mine and Jude’s horses up in opposite turns.